 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
100
THE HAND IN MINE.
A hand like the leaf of a blush-rose,
O'er which the bright dew-pearls are strown,
Forever through sunlight and shadow
Is lovingly clasped in my own.
O'er which the bright dew-pearls are strown,
Forever through sunlight and shadow
Is lovingly clasped in my own.
If I roam through the summer-time forests,
Or climb the steep slope of the hills,—
Or rest in the blossomy shadows
Which curtain the course of the rills,—
Or climb the steep slope of the hills,—
Or rest in the blossomy shadows
Which curtain the course of the rills,—
If I search for the first timid flowers
The spring's budding mosses among,
Or sit in the shine of the fire-light
When the evenings are wintry and long,—
The spring's budding mosses among,
Or sit in the shine of the fire-light
When the evenings are wintry and long,—
If I stray where the world's striving voices
Are sounding, contentious and loud,
Or seek in my own quiet chamber,
Relief from the turbulent crowd,—
Are sounding, contentious and loud,
Or seek in my own quiet chamber,
Relief from the turbulent crowd,—
101
In the bright hours which follow the dawning,
Or in the broad daylight of noon,
Or when the blithe cricket is singing
At eve his monotonous tune,—
Or in the broad daylight of noon,
Or when the blithe cricket is singing
At eve his monotonous tune,—
Or when the thick tresses of midnight
On earth's silent bosom are thrown,
The hand with its soft, clasping fingers
Lies lovingly still in my own.
On earth's silent bosom are thrown,
The hand with its soft, clasping fingers
Lies lovingly still in my own.
And when the pale messenger cometh,
Whose smile hath a promise divine,
Will they lay me away from my idol,
And take the dear fingers from mine?
Whose smile hath a promise divine,
Will they lay me away from my idol,
And take the dear fingers from mine?
Oh, no! let us yield up together
The last brief and quivering breath,
And the hands which in life never parted,
Be still undivided in death!
The last brief and quivering breath,
And the hands which in life never parted,
Be still undivided in death!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |